


remember me i ask, remember me i sing

by Randommuse386



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, but most likely a Happy Ending, eventually, functionally immortal!Jaskier, may add more tags later, turned into a creature!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25423108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randommuse386/pseuds/Randommuse386
Summary: How do you know who you are if you don't have a past? If it was taken from you?Well, Jaskier's not quite sure, but maybe with some help he'll find out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> started with a throwaway shitpost about different ridiculous ways Jaskier could be immortal
> 
> had a breakdown about how one of his biggest fears is probably being forgotten
> 
> bon appetit
> 
> (and yes, the title is from The Amazing Devil's song "The Horror and the Wild")

He doesn't remember Before.

Before he had become a lost wanderer. Before he had woken, cold and alone, in a nameless town of strange faces. Before he forgot where he came from and started towards a life hopefully worth remembering. 

If he focuses hard enough on that blank dark ocean of what was, he can see a twisted shape and a hunger never met with satisfaction. If he traces the small mark at the base of his skull, he can feel an ice-sharp claw of fear reaching in and _pulling_. He doesn't know how the mark came to be, but he knows it is jagged and hurt and **there** \- an exit wound made raw by the relentless scrape of memories being extracted and consumed. 

He had felt so hollow, those days after whatever had attacked him. So full of emptiness he could scream just from the paradox alone. At least he had come to in a room already paid for, with a few possessions that seemed to be his. For three days he stayed in that space, just to feel the walls block out the rest of the world he could not remember being a part of. But he could not stay there forever, and even though he ate during the days, a growing hunger still gnawed; he soon realized he had glimpsed its match Before, and he could only hope it would not prove as terrifying and insatiable. 

That was a very short hope.

On the fourth day, he left his little room, its comfort no longer enough. He told himself he just needed some fresh air to clear his head, some solid earth beneath his feet. But in the back of his mind, centered just by that mark, he knew he was hunting. 

As the night fell around him, so did his new instinct, a cloak of stalking need - and even worse, a wanting thrill. He likes to tell himself he doesn't really recall what happened next, that it too was lost to him just like the Before. But this....this he remembers in scarring detail. A man ahead of him in the crowd, making his way between two buildings, thinking the shadowed alley will get him home quicker to his waiting family; following the man and calling out a greeting, a seemingly innocent question of direction - a trap to bring him closer; and the snare of his hands catching fast and quick upon the back of the man's head, his eyes going distant and glass-like in seconds. The only consolation he can give himself is that he didn't drain the man dry, but the man - Szymon, another thing he can't forget though he wishes dearly he could - went home that night with no memory of his ten year old daughter. Those years gone, and he does not know how to give them back; does not know if he even would after they had filled up that cored-out hollow inside, had quieted that hunger. For a time. 

He goes back to his room that night and doesn't sleep.

-

He moves on the next morning, packing up his things and walking out of that town with a straight back and feet that want to run. He has no idea where he is going, or who may be waiting for him somewhere, anywhere; he fears, deep down to his marrow, that no one is. He just keeps moving, trying to stick to smaller villages and less-traveled roads; he thinks he has never done so much camping, but that's just an educated guess. Anything to keep away from other people, with their rich pasts calling out to him like feasts waiting to be consumed. He stretches himself thin, starving until he can no longer take the gnashing hunger, and even then he only tries to take the scraps he hopes no one will miss too dearly. There are a few slip-ups here and there, but his control gets better through gory practice. 

And yet another problem arises; he feeds his hunger, and while that keeps him alive and going, it does not change how _wrong_ he feels. Not just the heavy guilt from taking that which isn't his, but another wrongness. He has all these memories of other people's lives, all their mundanities and extraordinary moments, all their loved ones, all their lives lived, and though he owns them, for awhile, in a sense, they are not _his_. He is still blank. By the gods, he doesn't even know his own name! If anyone bothers to ask it of him, he gives a different one each time - nothing feels right. He knows nothing; he is nowhere and no one.

He is nothing.

-

Another few weeks. A handful of "meals". More names; his victims', that he can't forget, and those he shrugs on for a few days like an ill-fitting coat, soon to be forgotten. It doesn't really matter, anyway.

Nothing he does matters.

He had left behind a pendant, in one of the many cold rooms in the many towns full of strangers that had become a map of his sorrow. Not of his life, as he is not really living - merely surviving. They were mostly running and blurring together, at this point. But that pendant, a delicate lark with topaz chips for eyes, had been one of the few possessions he had from Before - he couldn't bear to lose any of those last ties to his past, no matter how small or frivolous, and no matter if he couldn't recall any memory attached to them. He just liked having tangible proof that he had been a real person, at some point, the kind that was thought of fondly and often, the kind who might have received such a necklace as a gift. So he made his way back to look for it.

He wishes he hadn't.

It took him a few days to realize the item was missing, and by the time he noticed, turned around, and made it back to Velen, about a week and a half had passed. He found his way back with little trouble, a cozy place with a red roof (creatively called The Red Roof Inn), just on the border of Novigrad. The same lovely young woman greeted him as he walked in, and he made his way over.

"Hello again, Ada! I know you must be tired of seeing this weary face, but I do believe I left something here and would very much like to see its return. Did you or any one of your lovely patrons find a little gold pendant? In the shape of a lovely lark? It's very important to me, you see." He may be a tad more desperate to find it than he thought - he's using more words and charm than he has in the past few weeks, but it does feel nice to converse with someone. And the girl had been very friendly to him during his first visit; they had even passed one of the nights with silly card games and some really excellent cakes she had made. It seemed they were both lonely souls. 

A strange look passed over her face, and she just stared at him for a good few moments. He was about to ask if something was wrong, when she very hesitantly threw his world into disarray. "I'm sorry, sir, but - um, eh, do I... know you? We don't usually get a large number of people coming through here, but I do let some slip through the cracks, as they say." Ada gives a slight, self-conscious little chuckle, and he can see that there really is no recognition in her face. "When, um, when did you say you were here last? And you lost something? Maybe - "

"No, no, that's alright," he breaks in, amazed he can squeak anything out with the way his lungs can't seem to find enough air. She doesn't know him. She doesn't remember him. 

Of course.

Of fucking course she doesn't! He can feel himself losing track of his surroundings, but he can see her face becoming concerned. She says something, but the words can't get past the rushing in his ears, and he just mutters out a few more "sorrys" and "nevermind, don't worry about it" and "made a mistake". He turns and runs out the door, almost tripping down the few steps outside, and keeps going until he finds himself in a pocket of quiet around the side of a building. The wood feels solid and harsh against his back as he slides down it to puddle on the ground, and he sits there for a long time, trying to get his breath and his mind back.

He leaves without the pendant.

-

The money in his bag is running low, and he's not even sure how he gained it in the first place. He starts picking up odd jobs here and there, small things that toss little company and a few coins his way. It keeps him focused during the day, but the nights are still hard, yawning open and calling out for him to fall further adrift. He finally picks up the scuffed but well-loved lute that was with his possessions when he woke - he had only run his hands over the strings briefly, before he shut it away in its case. Now he brings it out and lays it on his lap, waiting to see if it sparks any memory; it doesn't, unsurprisingly - at least, not any visual memory. But as he brings it up, he finds his hands curling around its body, cradling it, and he feels settled for the first time in a long while. The notes he picks out are rough and scattered, nothing you could even generously call a song coming forth. He keeps working at it, though, and as the stars wink above him he welcomes the night with an aching but proud melody. He looks at the calluses on his fingers, built up on years of songs he can't remember, and thinks _maybe I can create some beauty for the world, to help pay for my ugliness._

He falls asleep just before dusk, the lute still in his arms, and he does not dream of names and faces that don't belong to him. It is the best sleep he's ever gotten, and in the morning he comes awake slow and warm and refreshed. And so he keeps playing, his hands remembering where his mind forgets, and he makes up new tunes and lyrics and songs aplenty; it seems his hands were just waiting for that first chord to be struck. It creates a different hunger in him, but this one he isn't afraid of.

-

He is in another small town, just on the outskirts, helping out an older couple with their broken fence. They had offered him a warm meal and a warm bed for his work, and he is grateful for the kindness. He tries to keep himself so distant from people, to not hurt more than he can help it, and he gets so very lonely. 

The sun is high overhead, the afternoon at its peak, and he has found a shaded spot for a break. The woman, Lena, had brought him a tall glass of cold water, fresh from the earth, and it tastes clear and sharp on his tongue. He decides to bring out his lute for some practice, and starts playing a silly little song about the flowering spring come to play, with her green locks buzzing with the hum of honeybees and her feet waltzing through streams and time alike; it feels the perfect atmosphere to play it. As he finishes a verse and rounds back to the chorus again, he hears a little voice from behind humming along, echoing his words back at him. He keeps playing, but turns to see the couple's granddaughter, a young girl of about eight or nine, dancing there with a basket of fresh-picked flowers; he thinks they will make an excellent wreath. As he winds down his song and slowly fades out the notes, she comes closer to him and holds out her dirt-covered palm, smiling the smile of two friends sharing a secret.

"I like your song," she says shyly. "You have a nice voice. Dziadek says nice things given should be thanked, so thank you." She shakes her outstretched hand slightly, and the little flower resting there catches his eye. It's a sunny and bright buttercup, and it's presented with the same gravitas as if it were solid gold. He reaches out to take it, and twirls it as he brings it up to his nose to breathe its fresh scent deep. 

"Well, thank you for the thanks, and I shall treasure this token of our great and legendary friendship!" He cannot seem to stop smiling, and his chest feels like it's blooming. "Would you like to hear another song? I think you'd enjoy the ballad of Zofia the adventurer, who roams across the Continent and makes friends with everyone she meets."

Her eyes light up and she plops down before him. "That's my name! Yes yes, play it!" A pause as she settles for a moment and says solicitously, "please", before she's back to dancing in her seat. He definitely can't hold back a laugh at that, and rewards such good manners with the promised song. He plays for her for a good twenty minutes before she's called back to the house, and as she leaves, still humming and singing snippets of the song he made for her, he reaches up to the buttercup tucked behind his ear and doesn't feel that ever-lurking hunger.

-

At the next place he stops, the innkeeper asks for his name as he's buying a room. He smiles as his mouth forms around "Jaskier", and it doesn't feel like a lie; it tastes like _potential_. 


	2. Chapter 2

It's been a few years since he became Jaskier, and he still travels about like a petal on the breeze, uprooted but still going. Still alive. He can scarcely believe it himself. Lady luck seemed fond of fucking him over, but there was one benefit she tossed out like a battered bone to a starving dog: he doesn't seem to be aging. He hasn't caught any sickness in the past few years either. He's gotten into a few scrapes and dust-ups here and there, some truly unfortunate misunderstandings, but they healed pretty quick - especially if he'd been _fed_. 

Which is another small miracle as well. The "rules" surrounding his condition aren't quite as set as he'd first believed. Certainly, the quickest way to address the hunger was to glut himself at the source, to find some poor soul and latch on for a quick meal. But other people's memories of their own lives and personal histories are not the only sustenance that can feed him - it seems writing himself in their memories works too. The more lasting the impression, the stronger energy he gains, and they even.... _taste_ different as well.

Memories unconnected to him taste bland in the worst way - like you know it tastes of the sweetest ambrosia to others, but it turns to ash in your own mouth, and you get echoes of what could have been, what everyone else seems to have but you. The memories he creates and becomes a part of have more substance. More zest. He's been playing taverns and inns along his meandering path, and those nights with generous and receptive (and drunk) crowds are the best - as people stumble out after or up to their rooms, still humming his songs, he feels full for at least a week, and he can taste happiness like crisp apples or a cold ale. And as he has become more comfortable around people again, in control enough to sate his loneliness on a more face-to-face basis, if you will, he's found himself some lovely company, and those memories he leaves his lovers with are tangy citrus and refreshing for a quick snack or pick-me-up. Although, of course, there are those few unfortunate misunderstandings he finds himself in, usually, he admits, in conjunction with those romps, and the tang can soon turn more sour and acidic - he's still full for a day or two, but it's uncomfortable and doesn't sit _quite_ right.

He knows he has become louder over the years, everything about him calling out for a look, a remark, for attention. Brightly colored doublets garner admiring glances; a flash of silver or gold about his fingers make others want to reach out and touch; a sly wink and stories told through movement as much as words gathers people closer. After keeping himself so separate and quiet, shrinking himself down to pass unnoticed and hopefully unharmed, for all parties concerned, to let go and be so blatantly present is a thrill; he may be forgotten, but he refuses to be ignored.

***

On his more maudlin days, he does wonder if this newfound freedom is truly a blessing - is being Jaskier the slow return of who he was Before? Is there anything real in the artifice he adopted to fit in and make life easier? Getting too philosophical makes his temples throb, so he just gives thanks that he may still be lonely now, but at least he's not so alone.

-

It's just a small rough patch, barely even a dip on his long path, really. He may have hit a little creative block, and his fingers may be plucking his strings a smidge less smoothly, and his purse does feel more on the lighter side most days, and the people around these parts seem less inclined to music and distraction, and he may be feeling a bit _lean_ \- 

\- and alright, that small dip is looking more and more like a cavernous ditch slicing before his trudging and increasingly weary feet. But it's fine, it's all fine and dandy, and he'll just knuckle down in this town for one more day and then set off for greener pastures. This town - Posada, he thinks? - is a bit dull for his taste anyway. He's been here for little less than a week, staying in a small but clean room in exchange for kitchen duties and playing the odd tune here and there. And Magdalena's stews have proven hearty enough to keep his less temperamental stomach full, but he could do without the other various foodstuffs thrown at him by unappreciative inn patrons. Can't win all your battles, he guesses.

He's dealing with a particularly cantankerous crowd, at the moment, no ear for his more scandalous verses, apparently. At least he will have some food for the road tomorrow, looking at all the hard bricks of bread at his feet. In the midst of his gathering of riches, he feels a peculiar sensation shiver down his nape and nestle under his shoulder blades. He's only felt this once or twice before, and as far as he can work out, it means there's a person rife with strong memories nearby. Judging by the strength of it, they're more story than man, and it's all at once heady and pointed and his nails bite into his palms, leaving an imprint of selfish, clawing _want_. It's a dangerous affair; of course, he seeks it out. Just to see. Just to feed his curiosity, he swears.

He doesn't need to look far; as soon as his eyes raise from the floor, they lock on a solitary figure in the corner. And before he realizes, his traitorous feet have taken him right up to the man's table. He cuts a striking figure, all black-clad sharp angles, both lovingly embraced by the low shadows of the inn and kissed lightly by dusty sunlight filtering in the window; Jaskier would gleefully cut himself upon that chin and those eyes. The man is gorgeous and mysterious, with an edge of sweet danger; he looks like Jaskier's next mistake, and he never could resist a learning opportunity. Hopefully the curve isn't steep enough to bury him.

"I love the way you just... sit in the corner and brood." Admittedly, not his best opener, but not entirely the worst either; he hasn't implied that anyone's ancestors had had relations with a goat this time. Perfectly adequate in such extenuating circumstances, how can he be expected to be on the top of his game with all **that** so blatantly on display? It certainly wasn't egregious enough to engender the sour scowl that breaks over the man's face.

He takes those lovely eyes away from Jaskier's view, and his voice is a gentler grumble than he was expecting. "I'm here to drink alone." Standoffish, but still engaging with him, and there hasn't been any threat of the violence that the man's, well, _everything_ works so hard to hint at. He can work with this; he's done so with much less before.

Jaskier sits himself down as if invited, spouting something about his performance and what did the man think of it? Honestly, he's losing whatever focus he had; the man's memories have almost taken physical shape in the space around him, a tangible aura of hard-won experiences. Like the past was never too far from him, blurring and peeking through his present, and it makes Jaskier light-headed, as if he had drunk a few bottles of expensive Redanian wine. "You don't want to keep a man with... bread in his pants waiting."

Hmm. Definitely somewhat impaired, Melitele's tits, he needs to get it together --

"They don't exist." That soothing growl breaks into his thoughts, and he's brought up short. What does - wait.

Oh _fuck_.

He takes a closer look at the man and a sobering bucket of metaphorical ice-water washes over him. Jaskier keeps his composure on the outside, flirty and insouciant quirk affixed to his face like a man greeting the gallows with all the false bravado he can muster, but inside he's having a bit of a panic. Just a small one, but its teeth are sinking in deep, and is it getting a bit warm in here? He tries to focus back on that face, and those eyes ensnare him. They are steady and intense, but again, there doesn't seem to be any violence - just mild annoyance really, and that's all too familiar. And, usually, not too life-threatening. 

The man's Witcher-sense must be broken, and he _is_ a Witcher. A famous (well, infamous) one, at that, if his suspicions are correct. Jaskier calms and slips back into what he does best - he pushes for more.

"Oh fun," and Jaskier can't quite stop the nervous tapping of his fingertips on the tabletop, but he's gotten pretty adept at passing such tics off as playful energy rather than anything to hide. 

"White hair." Might as well start off safe.

"Big ol' loner." But never too safe.

"Two very," and maaaybe he shouldn't be attracting attention to - "very scary swords." Well, he tried, but his mouth would rather ask forgiveness than permission most days (or neither, sometimes). At least he can try to focus on how dangerously sexy the death-sharp metal looks strapped to this Witcher's back, rather than the pure _danger_ danger they could spell for him. Always easier to deal in innuendos, rather than sink in the mire of serious introspection, he thinks.

"I know who you are." The final blow; or at least, the final straw for the Witcher, as he heaves himself up from his seat, looking all too weary; those stories Jaskier sensed sink more heavily on broad shoulders, the allusion to a name and a preceding reputation seeming to push everything down. He hesitates at the table, wondering if he's pushing too far and too fast out of innocent curiosity, or a more darker intention; if he follows, he will no doubt gather enough material to keep his inspiration up and his songs more...real. People like truth in their entertainment, or at least, a sense of truth, an undeniable feeling of peril and excitement found in any corner. Such tangible emotions tend to stick, and will surely help spread, if nothing else, his name; in his predicament, he could use a reputation that precedes him. If no one's quite sure who "Jaskier" is, as a living (somewhat) and breathing person, they could still catch his songs lingering in crowded taverns and lonely roads, and that is enough for now. Mostly.

But his Witcher is getting away - this is why he detests such introspection; too distracting. 

Jaskier jumps up to follow, a name on his tongue and a desperate clench in his gut. No matter his true purpose for hounding the man, he just can't let such a lush tapestry walk out; it's an almost unconscious action, the same that led him to the man's table earlier. 

He hardly even acknowledges Jaskier's presence, choosing to turn a blind eye in the hope he'll go away, probably, but that's never worked against Jaskier - like he's said before, he refuses to be ignored. 

Jaskier turns the Witcher's own words back on him, trying to get a response longer than a terse "Go away." He had been the one who said Jaskier needed more realism, and what could offer such stories more than traveling with a Witcher? 

"And you sir, smell chock full of them." He knows he's getting into perilous territory, talking like that, being what he is (What is he exactly? Who knows, certainly not him, and hopefully not the Witcher), but the promise of _something_ is so close. 

Death and destiny; heroics and heartbreak. 

Geralt of Rivia could very well be his salvation.

(He holds onto that thought, like a shiny coin, even while he holds his smarting stomach and feels the shape of Geralt's knuckles marking his skin. Fair enough, he supposes; he'll steer clear of using that moniker - as soon as "Butcher" passed his lips, Jaskier could taste copper and rotten flowers on the back of his tongue.

He can only imagine the taste it leaves in Geralt's own mouth.)


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier loves it when he's right.

Traveling with Geralt is the best decision he's ever made, even if there's always that nagging sensation of dread, a lingering trepidation that he'll be found out and dealt with. There have been a few close calls, here and there, where he'd had to go for a quick _bite_ to tide himself over. Geralt seems mostly happy to let him wander off, but if he's gone for too long, he comes looking for him and whatever trouble he's surely stirred up. And the Witcher himself is really the worst temptation; Jaskier has to constantly keep a firm hand on his wandering appetite. The times where the air is easier between them, when Geralt relaxes, just a little, and allows himself to be something close to content are hard to resist - he wants to be greedy and sup on whatever memories lead to that quiet upturn of Geralt's smile. Even just to take a peek, not even to sate his hunger.

And then there are the more difficult days.

The days where Geralt will drag those imposing walls ever closer, to bottle up every dark thought until they rise up from his chest in a choke, days where he'll look at Jaskier but see someone else's face and turn away - those days, the temptation is almost a physical thing, a monster looming over his shoulder and whispering _take_. But it's not the usual monstrous urge to gorge himself; it's his ever-growing affection for the man, which is an entirely different beast to contend with. He wants to consume those memories so they can no longer consume his Witcher. 

He's gotten to really _see_ the prickly Witcher over the last few months, he likes to think, and he knows now that the rumours shadowing his steps are only as dark and distorted as other peoples' fears. Yes, he is formidable and intense and strange, but he is also kind and honest and so concerned with being a good man, even though he hides it behind a world-weary facade. Geralt of Rivia is a man of contradictions and complexities, and Jaskier is sure most try not to parse his labyrinthine character, which is a tragic loss for them, truly. 

Ah well, more Witcher for him.

They've had countless adventures together, and even though Geralt constantly warns him to stay back or threatens to leave him behind, he never actually does. The first are just Geralt's attempts to keep him safe and away from the fights, while the latter is just typical, emotionally-repressed posturing - the idiot honestly believes he doesn't deserve companionship! And what's worse, Jaskier can see, is that Geralt has had such notions reinforced in practically every place they travel to; there are few kind words and even fewer kind gestures extended towards Witchers. 

But, as he promised to Geralt on a dusty road to meet a devil, he's been doing his best to change that.

He's written a veritable symphony of songs about his Witcher, no matter their relationship's short life span; almost everything about Geralt is inspiring to him in some way, it seems - he's a true muse. But the one immortalizing their first adventure has proven quite popular along the way. The last few places they've been have had a few other travelers carrying the song with them. When Jaskier starts to play it, he can see recognition dawn with the first few words or so; soon enough, maybe he'll only need the first note or two. These crowds are always looser, more welcoming to the cautious Witcher, and Jaskier can see Geralt's own shoulders relax their tension, in minute increments to be sure, but still doing so, and he doesn't look so hunted. 

Or haunted. 

Maybe a bit of both.

Digressions aside, his point is that their reputations are flourishing. And though he takes pride in easing Geralt's path, he has to admit he's not entirely selfless; he's never felt better. The hunger still comes and goes, and he feels fullest after a performance, but he gets this thrumming thrill from time to time in the quiet interims; he can almost hear his songs being shared with someone new. They won't remember his face, but they'll carry a part of his true self with them as long as those last notes don't fade. And there _is_ a part of who he is, who he's made himself into, in every one of his songs, each one built upon memories he's made with Geralt. These recollections of his lived experiences taste more than his other creations; when he sings them, each note floats along his palate, changing from one verse to the next. The salt-tang of a storm-rough ocean for a contract that ended poorly; dark plum heart lodged in his throat when in the line of fire; a bright cherry burst for happy endings; singe of ozone in his teeth for Geralt's bloody and battered but still alive body - he can hardly handle such overwhelming sensation. 

It's been the best time of his life, and it's about to end.

Winter is nipping at their heels and the air is growing crisp and chilled, and this apparently means all good little Witchers must return home. No bards allowed, no matter how dashing. Jaskier has to let Geralt go, has to not be constantly around him; his presence will fade from Geralt's mind like dying embers in the night, and he can't do anything about it. Jaskier knew, intellectually, that he couldn't follow Geralt around forever, that he was always on borrowed time, but he still thought he'd get more than a few months out of it. He got what he _needed_ , in the form of real stories to enrich his songs, so he won't go hungry any time soon, but he finds himself _wanting_ \- wanting to keep building memories with Geralt, to become important to him. He doesn't care so much about the taking, anymore; taking the rush of Geralt's past brushing against him, taking his fights for inspiration, taking his time and space to make his own not feel so lonely. Due to his nature, he is intimately familiar with take, take, take - but just like that night long ago, when he first fit his lute in empty hands and decided to create something beautiful, he wants to learn more how to give. Not just catchy songs or brief affairs; he wants to cradle all his parts and lay them gently in scarred but sure hands, lay all of himself down to rest where he knows he will be carried.

But Geralt won't remember him after the winter, and he doesn't know where else to lay this awakened generosity.

***

They part ways, and Jaskier can't quite help himself; he whips around to Geralt, quick enough to catch him off-guard, and he wraps him in a tight hug. He fully expects to be pried off and sent sprawling, but Geralt surprisingly indulges him. For a few seconds, at least. He is stiff, and uncomfortable in the way of someone unfamiliar with friendly touch, but he lets loose an almost inaudible sigh that sounds interestingly of contentment before he pushes Jaskier away.

"Don't be so dramatic, bard. I'm sure you'll find me again soon enough and continue to annoy me."

Jaskier can only smile sadly, and think of lazy afternoons and nights warmed by firelight and two lonely figures sitting across each other in a small tavern in Posada, and say, "Of course, Geralt. You'd be lost without me."

How he wishes that were true.

-

That winter seemed the longest he'd ever known, and even as spring finally came, the ice sitting heavy in his lungs proved difficult to thaw. After leaving Geralt, Jaskier had eventually found his way to Oxenfurt to hole up for the harsher months. He had passed through a time or two before, but he'd never stayed so long; he'd never really stayed long anywhere, always moving on to the next town or village or rumour of interest. Mostly out of some instinct to guard what he is, to move on before anyone could look past his theatrics and see the darker beast below, but also, he supposes, to not get too attached to any one person. Well, he rightfully cocked that up anyway, traveling with Geralt, but he was caught too deep before he could realize. Even then, even now, as that little hollow stretches open in his chest, matching the shape and depth of golden eyes, he can't be too regretful. Geralt won't remember their time together, won't know his face if they cross paths again, but Jaskier can still hold onto him; and every time he composes and plays and weaves their brief time into something with a beating heart, the sweet mostly outweighs the bitter.

Jaskier had had plenty of time to indulge in such reminiscence while in Oxenfurt. He'd connected with one of the professors from the college, after they had seen him perform one night, and they spoke at length about their shared craft. Jaskier could feel a warmth settle over him each time they came together, each time he realized he had garnered another friend, for now, and was delighted to be invited to guest lecture. The little bardlings enjoyed his compositions, and he could see the stars in their eyes as they thought of their own future journeys, excitement and hope thick in the air. 

He couldn't help but wonder if he'd been like that a lifetime ago.

...But anyway, even though the physical absence of his Witcher friend made him constantly reach for a shoulder not there, to look for disheveled silver hair flashing around corners, finding an appreciative audience to relive his memories of Geralt with soothed the rough edges of the ache. And his time at the college, surrounded by strange faces becoming familiar, helped him realize he could still make those deeper connections; they would be no less important for their inevitable end. He could gather these sparks together, brief but bright, and keep them in mind for those harder times.

Given his supposed immortality, the finite nature of these connections proves novel; at the very least, they make him feel closer to being human again.

-

The winter changes to spring and then to summer, and Jaskier travels with the seasons. His time in Oxenfurt, though enlightening, couldn't overcome his need to keep moving, to keep throwing his songs and those pieces of himself to the wind, in the hopes of spreading far and wide and saying _I exist_. He finds himself more at ease with people, more willing to engage outside of his making music in taverns and inns (and on occasion, in bedrooms). Everything feels rather alright; he doesn't need to feed directly on others' memories quite so often, as his songs are proving popular and lasting. A few rather drunk fellows had even complained about his "Toss A Coin", lamenting it was too catching, too in the brain, and Jaskier could only laugh delightedly; seems his penchant for involuntary annoyance is helping him out.

The blaze of summer is dying down, and autumn is lining the roads with reds and oranges and cheery yellows, leaves crunching satisfyingly under his feet. He's walking somewhere near Temeria, he thinks, not thinking too much past finding a nice meadow to camp in for the night. He goes on a bit further, maybe another hour or so, getting lost in trying to pick out a particularly stubborn melody on his lute, when he sees a small wisp of smoke rising above the trees. Curiosity being one of his greatest virtues (or vices, depending on the situation), Jaskier can't help but try and get closer for a glimpse at what other weary travelers may be around. He follows the scent of burning wood, and just before he gets to a break in the trees, he can also hear a horse whinnying and soft grumbles. He peeks through, still somewhat cautious despite that curiosity, only to stutter and trip over his own feet at who he sees.

Of course, sitting in the clearing, skinning what looks to be dinner and talking quietly to his horse, is one Geralt of Rivia.

Jaskier can hardly believe it; he had not been actively searching for Geralt, not too keen to see blank indifference on that lovely face, but he can't help the swell of affection that rises up. His entrance into the clearing, the opposite of smooth and composed, immediately puts Geralt's attention on him as he tries to find his feet and his words. He's so discombobulated that the only thing he can think to say is, "I love how you just sit on that log and brood."

He wants to smack himself.

That was definitely nowhere _near_ what he had planned to say when he came across Geralt again. One of the benefits of his whole situation was being able to redo first impressions - he had wanted to be cool! Collected! Suave, even! To toss out the perfect line to make the Witcher _swoon_ , or, alright, at the _very least_ not get that same stand-offish scowl and tense back of their _first_ first meeting, and now he's gone and bollocksed it all again, _sweet Melitele_ \- 

"Really, Bard?" The sardonic tone and quirk of the lips break through his mini breakdown. Geralt looks exasperated and annoyed and a tad bit amused under it all. "Reusing old lines? I thought that was beneath you. Hitting a creative slump?"

"Wha - ha - _hey, hey!_ My tongue is as perfectly clever as a Passifloran prostitute, I have never been so insul - "

Another fumble of words as he's brought up short.

Did he just - ? He did, _he did!_ Geralt knows who he is, remembers who he is, how is this _possible_ , he **can't -**

Geralt's face twists into something fighting to not look concerned. "Hmmm. Did you hit your head again? You seem to be struggling."

"Ha, ha ha," Jaskier sighs out in a weak chuckle; no room for any real mirth as it's squeezed from his lungs. "I'm just, a little _surprised?_ That you, ah, that you" - again, skirting the edge of what he is, but he needs to figure out what is _**happening -**_ "remember me?"

Now the concern shrugs off more of that feigned disinterest, and Geralt looks truly worried about his mental faculties. "Of course I remember you. You wouldn't leave me alone or shut up in all the months we traveled together. Even in your sleep. You are, if nothing else, very hard to forget."

"You'd be surprised." The words are still very faint, and falling from his lips as though brought deep from his core and tumbling out. He can't bring himself to say much more, at the moment; guess there are some things that _can_ silence him. Jaskier comes forward in a daze and sits himself at Geralt's fire, his eyes still running over the hardened planes and secret tender parts of the man he was fully prepared to pretend not to know. That he was prepared to find and work himself back into easy confidence with, again and again, until his charm rung hollow enough to not quite cover his wrongness. 

But he remembers. Geralt knows full well the sum of his parts, even if he hasn't parsed each individual element of what he is. He's seen him at his best and his (almost) worst, and he's not turning him away with a cold shoulder and a harsh word. 

Jaskier doesn't know what to do in this situation.

Geralt's penchant for blowing past awkward situations, in the hopes he can simply will them out of existence, saves him. "Well, whatever's wrong with you, you're still making yourself at home with no invitation; you can't be feeling too badly. Make yourself useful and get some fresh water, there's a stream just over there. I might share some of this if you can make it back without getting lost. Or accosted by something." He indicates the waterskin by his feet, and then goes back to preparing the meat for the fire.

Back to business as usual, nothing _earthshattering_ happening here, no sir, he can't _possibly know_ he's tipped the horizon and flung Jaskier's feet from the solid earth.

He picks up the waterskin, and goes off, contemplating this puzzling, but exciting, development.

**Author's Note:**

> kinda know where i'm going with this, kinda not. i'm hoping by posting this into the void it'll force me to actually finish the damn thing.


End file.
